


Tread Lightly

by discord_and_rhyme



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Sitting, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Missionary Position, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sarcasm, Vaginal Sex, and, though these feelings also include
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discord_and_rhyme/pseuds/discord_and_rhyme
Summary: 'They fall in together: the control freak and the man who can't be controlled.They've got all of time and space spread out before them, and Clara Oswald chooses her bedroom.For the first time, she takes his hand in hers and leadshiminto the great beyond.'*They’ve been skirting around this in a million different echoes of reality. Much like the Doctor himself, it really is about time.





	Tread Lightly

Her front door open outwards, and thank God for that, because Clara takes one step inside and walks straight into the TARDIS.

“Shit.”

“Language!” The Doctor’s hand appears, gesturing for her to squeeze through the tiny gap between the police box and the hallway wall. “Come on through,” he says - “I need to brush up on my parallel parking. Normally with blocks of flats I pull up outside.”

Clara blinks.

“What are you doing here?”

Impatient fingers tap out a rhythm on the blue wood. “Come in and I’ll tell you.”  
She accepts this cop out for what it is, and, rolling her eyes, forces herself through into the living room.

“That was an indignity,” She murmurs, and flops melodramatically onto her favourite chair. “So?”

The Doctor, who has carelessly brushed aside her things to perch on the sideboard, blinks owlishly at her.

“So?”

“What are you doing here? It’s Saturday!”

He looks at her from under those ridiculous eyebrows with an equally ridiculous expression: it says, _surely that’s obvious_.

“You said you were off away! With P.E.! On – what was it? A mini-break?”

He says the word, all teeth and deliberately pronounced syllables, as if it’s genuinely offensive.

Clara, who had come home in a huff hoping to avoid this subject entirely, groans.

“His name is _not _P.E., we were going to the Lake District, and he had to cancel.”

“The Lake District? You’ve already been there. I took you, remember? We met that nice neolithic man who asked to marry you.”

This is also a sore topic for discussion, and one pointed look from Clara manages to put a swift halt to it.

“So,” She says, dumping her rucksack on the floor and crossing her legs. “You thought since I was on holiday you’d come here and – what? Rob the place?”

The Doctor looks appalled she’d even suggest that, let alone be so obtuse as to not realise what he’s actually doing. He waits a split-second, then gestures wildly.

“I came to feed the fish!”

Clara didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

“You came to – feed the fish?”  
There’s a short silence. The Doctor turns his head away – there’s a twitch to his lip she rarely sees, and he drums his fingers on the wall.

“...Yes. And, well. To make sure you got home alright.”

Ah. There is something he’s not mentioning then.

“And how exactly did you know I’d be coming home early?”

Her mind jumps immediately to Danny’s phone call - “_I’m sorry babe, the place ha__s__ been double booked – what about next weekend? Half term, maybe?”_

“You-” Clara stands up, swallows hard. “You absolute twat. Why would you do that? Using your _time machine_ for that kind of petty -”

She stops – she doesn’t even know what to say. She’s inches away from the Doctor now, has unconsciously marched towards him in her anger. She watches, lip in between teeth, as his expression changes from sheepish to smug.

“You know that we have more fun.”

Clara raises a hand, wishing she had the nerve to slap him, and he raises his chin; as if to invite it. She shakes her head, rubs the lower half of her face in disbelief.

“Why would you go _out of your way_ to mess it up like this?”

He shrugs.  
“Because you want me to.”  
There’s a dull rush of blood in her ears, and she sees her arms reach for him in slow motion. There’s a second of direct, staring eye contact, noses touching, and then his mouth is on hers.

When he kisses her, his lips are slow and studious, and Clara Oswald feels like the subject of some peculiar experiment.

The Doctor's fingers are dotting hotspots over the curve of her jaw, dancing across the side of her face in an irregular rhythm that mirrors the steady thump of his hearts against hers.

She can feel the eager beat even between the layers of cotton and velvet and leather, and when his long fingers reach, languid and delicate, to toy with the zip of her jacket, her own pulse begins to speed up.

He pulls back every so often, staring intently at her with lidded eyes like she's some complex maths problem to which he's trying to find the answer. Clara feels naked under his gaze, and after thinking that, she laughs out loud.

"What's so funny, teacher?" He drawls. "Are you going to share the joke with the rest of the class?"

Her grin turns into a gasp when the Doctor – the obtuse, unknowable Doctor – begins to press open-mouthed kisses to her neck.

"I – I was just thinking," She lies – because oh, she doesn't want to ruin this moment with an ill-timed pun, not when he's doing _that_ with his lips and teeth - "You're not weird about this. I thought you'd be weird about this."

He sucks at her pulse point and audibly pulls his mouth away from her, and Clara thinks of bare hands separating two magnets, until she focuses on him, wide-eyed and smiling.

"Don't be silly," He murmurs, and for a split second, she notices a pink blush rise in his cheeks. "Of course I'm _weird _about this. It's been a few weeks for me – no." He shakes his head in realisation, silver curls following after him on a second delay. "It's been centuries."

He looks down at her, heart-faced and framed between lanky arms, and presses his nose to her cheek, heat-seeking and happy. "It's lucky you're here."

"Quite the dry spell," she laughs - "Stop being a sap and kiss me again."

Like any good student, he does as he's told.

His lips are plush and warm against hers, and when his hands reach again for the tags of her leather jacket, she doesn't interrupt. The noise of metal on metal is almost obscenely loud against the quietude of Clara's laboured breathing.

But she's always excelled at putting her foot in her mouth.

"Is this okay with you?" She whispers. Nervous fingers tap his collar, prompting him to respond.

"Is what?" He answers, and he's doing that look again that makes her feel like a brand new discovery.

"Me and you – a human and a time lord – doing _this__ – _we're not breaking any universal rules, or anything?"

Her rise in intonation gives away her anxiety to him in one neat sentence. She's stalling for time, stalling for any reason to come to her. She knows he's married, an alien, nine hundred years old – but every part of her throbs with want when he touches her; and when he grabs her hand and leads her head-first into adventure, the universe seems to hum with approval.

"No," the Doctor replies, "In fact, some of us turn out to be rather compatible. I’ve never been good the whole rules thing anyway. But Clara-"

Her face falls. She just knows there'll be some immovable obstacle, some bitter reason why this can't progress past promising touches. But his hands begin to trace on her again, all burgeoning light and bright-eyed enthusiasm.

"This chair is ridiculously tiny. My legs hurt. Can we move this somewhere else?"

They've got all of time and space spread out before them, and Clara Oswald chooses her bedroom.

For the first time, she takes his hand in hers and leads _him_ into the great beyond.

***

The low light of her bedside lamp gives the room a dusky pink glow, and illuminates the space between them. Clara feels a little embarrassed – her room is small and rather messy, a distinctly human nest of assorted paraphernalia – but the Doctor doesn't seem to care. He's distracted, examining the knick-knacks on her dressing table. He touches a pocket mirror, the moleskin cover of her journal, her favourite tube of scarlet lipstick. She laughs, just a little – his fascination with each trinket on her desk reminds her of a magpie. He uncaps and caps her fountain pen, flips through her dog-eared copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and reads it in a split-second. His scrutiny is a delightfully domestic instance of his interminable curiosity, but Clara, after shedding her jacket and lolling on her bed, is beginning to feel a little neglected. She tells him such, and he glances in her trio of mirrors to catch her eye with a dark, wry smile.

He turns, bending long legs, and sits cross legged in front of her, glancing down to see her abandoned coat and grimacing slightly. He's still fully clothed, and during this lull of conversation, Clara decides to spur him on a little. She's not wearing the most practical outfit – her favourite red dress and tights would make for a rather ungainly striptease, and she’s feeling decidedly awkward anyway. Instead, she turns her back on him and gestures with one hand to the hidden zip at the nape of her neck. His steady fingertips are warm points against the wisps of hair at the back of her head, and when he begins to pull apart the back panels, she shivers into his touch.

"I want to see you," he whispers, a subtle thread of desperation running through his words. "Look at me, Clara."

So they fall in together: the control freak and the man who can't be controlled – for her, he sits still while she traces his collar and unbuttons his shirt.

The soft fabric of his velvet jacket, pleasant friction against her fingertips, is discarded into the ever-growing pile of clothes beside her bed. Now he's shirtless before her, and her eyes widen – for a second, Clara glances away, but then she remembers that she's allowed to look. She does so gratuitously. Her gaze dances down from where his face is cloaked in the pastel peach aurora, past his chest and further still. "How do you make your eyes _do_ that?" He murmurs, and before waiting for an answer, he pulls her dress down to her waist. Distracted by his hands wrapped around her, Clara lowers her head and presses her lips to his collarbone.

"Do what?"

Hearing the Doctor moan is an experience. It's a delicious, vulnerable intimacy, and a fluid heat rises within her that sets her muscles on edge – her thighs clench in taut anticipation, and the flare of her arousal blazes into a steadfast flame.

While she kisses her way down his chest, he pulls her hair from her messy ponytail with clumsy, shaking hands. She glances up at him with those big doe-eyes, and begins to unbutton his flies.

With another groan, he stops her, pulling her up to her knees so he can pull her dress over her thighs. He struggles with her tights, finally removing them with a chuckle, and runs his hands up from her feet to her waist.

"Come on," Clara says, because his touch feels like firebrands on her skin, and every inch of her skin feels struck with electric charge – she's never been patient. "Get your kit off, Doctor."

He grins as he removes his trousers, and Clara laughs, because he looks like such a fool in his socks and underwear.

She pushes him down into the nest of pillows, straddling his narrow hips and leaning in to kiss him again.

"I'm not in for any surprises, am I?" Clara almost giggles. She rocks forward a little, and runs one delicate, deliberate hand over the front of his boxers. He lets out a strangled groan from the corner of his mouth. "Surprises?" He growls. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

She grinds her hips a little more, enjoying the look of blissful anguish spreading across his features and the steady, blunt friction he provides her. "Y'know," She laughs. "I'm not going to find some weird alien bits down here, am I?"

He tosses his head back into the jumble of paisley cushions and blankets, steely green eyes hooded and desperate.

"C’mon, Clara -" He mutters. The Doctor's voice is low and scratchy, but she is enjoying teasing him far too much.

"No tentacles, I hope -" She deliberates, sotto voce and soft, and she drags the back of her knuckles over him again. "No duplicate appendages -" He's hard beneath her, and the look in his eyes is beseeching, almost cross.

She takes a little mercy on him, reaching and wrapping a hand around him, watching as he writhes beneath her. Nothing alien, luckily, certainly: not intimidatingly large, but generous – typically time lord, she wonders, or just a lucky fluke of regeneration? Her brief introspection is halted with his groan as he bucks into her touch, one hand flailing through the air and finally finding purchase on the clasp of her bra. With some difficulty, he unfastens it, and pulls the straps down and off.

The way he gapes at her only serves to stoke her desire for him – with him beneath her, the picture of inarticulate want, she can feel the boundary between them dissolving with every pulse of her hips.

He reaches out towards her, puts his hands on her, rises up to kiss her again, delicate and bruising power all at once. His touch – delicately cool against her rapidly beating heart, hand cupped against her breast – is just what she needs. It anchors her to him, and the desire that floods her is burning, overwhelming. Her thighs pulse, muscles fluttering and clamping down on nothing.

Arching her back, curse muffled against his shoulder – he thumbs her knickers down her legs, mutters "_Language!_" into the shell of her ear, words hard and biting. There's nothing separating them now, and his fingers brush against her – skirting around where she needs his touch the most, he presses inside her.

"Tease," - barely above a whisper, her voice cracks and her ears fill with a pleasant, smooth buzz. She's light headed, her tenuous grip on reality – and him – growing weaker with every stroke of his fingers.

"It's all in the anticipation -" He says, but his words are cut short when Clara drags her fingertip across the head of his cock. He mutters something that even the TARDIS doesn't attempt to translate, a brief sing-song litany of Gallifreyan prayers and swears. His speaks again, and his words sound rich and dangerous, warm as her hand wraps around him, thumb taut against the double pulse.

"I can smell how much you want me -"

His broad hands move and grip at her thighs, and the pressure sets her mind racing once more. The connection is visceral, voltaic. His voice is electricity. "My Clara -"

Before she can respond, his mouth is on her, tongue dragging a torturous rhythm across her clit, and she moans. She weaves her fingers through his curling tresses and pulls, white knuckled and panting. In his hair, her touch is desperate, possessive. She never wants this moment to end – wants to live forever in this second with his hot breath against her, lathing sensation -

She doesn't know his name, and the usual expletives catch in her throat – anything she could say, and mean, seems to tip the scale between vulgar and saccharine.

"Doctor -" She murmurs, and he glances up at her, eyes darkening as his pupils dilate. The sight sends a shock wave through her, and when his nails dig into the flesh of her arse, she shudders at the sudden flash of pain, revelling in it.

The tension within her is mounting, every muscle taut and aching, but the Doctor maintains his staccato rhythm. Hands patting helplessly at his hair, Clara thrusts her hips up to meet his mouth. Breathing heavily, she slings a leg over his back, urging him onwards. His fingers join his mouth at the crux of her thighs, middle and index delving and pulsing in sequence. Without forewarning, he pulls back, and Clara gives a breathy shriek. He smirks at her, smile wet and lopsided, and laughs at the pointed look she gives him.

"Why -" She growls, touch growing tight again in his hair, "- did you stop?"

Pressing kisses to her inner thighs, he waits for what seems like a decade, but is in fact only a few excruciating seconds, before sitting back on his haunches. "I thought you were the boss, Clara."

She looks at him, confused, and furrows her brow. "I am," She says decidedly, "But that's beside the point. Why did you _stop_?"

"Tell me what you want."

His words are deep and promising, and her eyes darken. One solitary finger beckons him forward, and she waits until his lips are within an inch of her own. "You know what I want, Doctor." She tries for intense, but her words come out in a sigh, breathless and desperate. He throws himself onto the bedspread to lie beside her, and for a second, her frustration overtakes her desire. Lolling next to her, he props himself up on crossed arms behind his head. "Come on then." He dares.

She glares down at him. "You're far too arrogant for your own good – one day somebody is going to call your bluff."

Straddling his chest, her look of confidence falters for a moment. She's not at all naïve: never has been, but this is new to her, especially with a man. Before she can start second-guessing herself, the Doctor gives her a swift wink, spans her waist with long-fingered hands, and pitches her up. His tongue is wet heat against her, inside her, and her entire world is centred against him underneath her. Steadying herself, palms flush against the headboard, she moans. She can barely breath: immersed in feeling and letting the sensation overwhelm her - "_Fuck_-"

In silent response, the Doctor grips her waist harder. He keeps his pace constant; delicious, languorous pressure – she bucks against him, blunt against tongue and teeth, and her vision is suddenly obscured, soft and blurred as she comes against him.

He brings her down from the high, dragging chaste lips up to her mouth, where she kisses him in a fog of passion. Her arms wrap around his back, and his settles in her hair, the other splayed against her bare back. His lips are wet and kiss-swollen, and when his tongue touches hers, she can taste herself. She smiles, wondering if she really is a narcissist. Weak at the knees and twitching with aftershocks, she lets herself relax into his embrace, feeling the solid thump of his two heartbeats as her sight and hearing returns to normal.

Clara feels pleasantly light-headed – she's reminded of being ever so slightly drunk – warm, cosy and Christmas-day-tipsy. The Doctor lowers her into the cool sheets, and she smiles up at him.

"You're not even out of breath," She murmurs, stroking the lipstick rosettes that litter his collarbones. She's hovering somewhere between jealous and amazed. He smirks down at her.

"It’s the superior time lord physiology. Respiratory bypass, you see."

She traces his jaw, pulling him down to kiss her again, a smile on her face as she feels him against her hip. He gasps when she traces a delicate hand over his cock. The Doctor inhales sharply, muttering again in musical Gallifreyan, and his large hand closes over hers, guiding her. His hips pulse into her grip, and he lifts her into his lap. It feels terrifyingly intimate, especially when he lowers his head to her shoulder and moans. "Clara -" He says, voice lilting - "Gods, Clara, you’re going to -"

And then her hand is gone, and he all but cries; a strangled blur of Scottish burr. "Wh-"

"Revenge," She says simply. She lowers her gaze and delights in the pun she's about to make - "You don't get off that easily."

The Doctor gives her a dark look that’s ninety percent eyebrows, and she giggles at him, waiting for his face to crack into a smile. She doesn't have to wait long.

Laughing, he plants soft lips on her jaw, teeth sharp behind her ear, and they descend again into the blankets. They can't seem to stop kissing: time is the one thing that's on their side, and they make the most of it.

When he bites at her lower lip, she gasps into his open mouth, falling against him in a tangle of limbs. His body is cool against hers, cloaking her in his wiry frame. His cock nudges her, and above his heavy sigh, she whispers - "_Please_ -"

His fingers reach and slide against her, and she presses her face to his neck, eyes shut tight. "Doctor -"

"Please _what_?"

The friction between them is unbearable, the blunt head of his cock in fluid motion against her clit, and she bites bruises into his shoulders. Clara looks at him, dark eyes pleading, face inches from his and pink with exertion – and he relents. The Doctor lifts her and pushes inside – waits, lets her adjust to him -

"God -" Clara groans, carding hands through his long hair, tugging. "No," he replies, "Time lord."

She covers his grin with a kiss, laughing and biting, and he gasps beneath her as she begins to move on him. He's breathless now, bare before her in a way that has nothing to do with the pulse of their hips, exposed in every sense of the word -

His thrusts are teasing, an irregular cadence as he figures out a pace, and she can feel him, hard on stuttering hips - "Doctor," she murmurs, scratching along his spine - "I need it -"

He moans, kisses her, pulls her tighter into his arms, and every nerve is on edge with heat. The Doctor finds his rhythm, rising up to meet her, hard and steady. Clara feels the best kind of small, wrapped up in him, muscles clenching hot and tight and wet and wanting around his cock.

He murmurs endearments into her neck, kissing her cheeks and her jaw. She steadies herself to look at him. When she moves her hips to match his, his eyes open wide and then shut just as quickly.

"Look at me," She whispers, echoing his earlier words as his strokes intensify. He mutters something quietly – archaic Gallifreyan strangely exotic here, in the domesticity of her little bedroom – then breaks into English, kissing her between laboured breaths, eyes still shut tight. "Can't" He pants - "Too much. Clara, I-"

"It's okay," She says, "Doctor -"

His hips begin to piston in earnest, broad hand moving to palm at her clit with clumsy purpose. She groans into it – he’s big, there’s no denying it, and the stretch is wonderfully palpable. Every second of eye contact gives her a pulse of pleasure; his muttered expletives as gratifying as the drag of his cock.

One hand snakes around to palm at her leg; pulling it to his shoulder. He’s tall and the burn is vivid, but it feels amazing, magnifying every movement he makes inside her.

“Do you like that?” He murmurs, and his words are soft, in perfect antithesis to his rocking hips.

She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting she does.

He leans forward, close enough to whisper, and she whimpers, then bites her lip.

Clara Oswald does not fucking whimper.

He smiles a wry smile, and keeps his pace. “C’mon, Clara,” He says, “You can tell me. Tell me it’s better.”  
He doesn’t have to say any names – or stupid nicknames, either – but he’s so blatant about it, Clara knows with perfect clarity what he’s getting at.

“I’m not doing this,” she gasps, breath pushed out of her with each thrust of his cock - “To prove anything to anyone.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re too stubborn for that -” his own moan, then, and Clara laughs in response.

“You really know the way to seduce a woman. God, Doctor.”

He bites back a laugh himself, and begins pistoning his hips in earnest. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

Everything aches in the best possible way – she groans, moves her leg so she can drag him towards her. She kisses him, biting and bittersweet. Frantic, now, all means to an end. His hands exert a little too much pressure on her tits, and it’s almost enough. Threads of arousal are coalescing: she’s close and she knows it.

“Can you come like this?”

It sounds so wrong coming from him, but she nods. Her hair is sticking to her forehead, she’s panting for breath.

“Yes – _please _-”

“Go on, then.”

There: his words push her over. She watches, vision blurry, his blissful face as she comes around his cock. It’s apparently all he needs, as she clenches around him, his sharp teeth bite white into his lip, and he pulses inside her.

***

They lie together, not speaking, but it’s not uncomfortable. Clara really is very tired. It’s been a long day, no thanks to the man beside her.

“I was thinking,” He says, and his voice is loud and cheerful.

“We’ll go somewhere in the future. The Lakes, maybe?”

She swats at him lazily.

“You’re a prat. Anyway, we can’t exactly go now, can we?”

The Doctor has never been a fan of this whole ‘rhetorical’ thing.

“I don’t know about that,” he says.

He shuffles down the bed, makes his way between her legs, nosing at her inner thighs. He bites at the soft flesh he finds. He can surely taste himself, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He looks up at Clara, who, knackered, doesn’t bother to express her surprise.

The Doctor winks at her, and lowers his gaze to lathe a deliberate lick up her centre.

“We’ve got time.”

**Author's Note:**

> There it is folks! My first published porn. This was mostly practice, so I'm hoping I did okay. If you liked it, throw me a kudos or a comment. Even anon will make my day.  
My bi!Clara headcanon seems to have seeped into this, so please forgive me for that, and also for the copious mentions of Peter Capaldi's hands.


End file.
